The Adventure of the St Bartholomew Vampire
by darnedchild
Summary: Bodies that had been found drained of blood are mysteriously disappearing from the morgue. Could it be the work of a vampire? Or is there something even more sinister stalking the dark streets of London? - Written for the Halloween at 221B - A Sherlolly Celebration Fest. A Victorian vampire story written in several short chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**The Adventure of the St Bartholomew Vampire**

"A vampire?" Sherlock scoffed. He cast a glance toward Watson, fully expecting the doctor to be as incredulous as he. Instead, Watson seemed titillated by Inspector Lestrade's suggestion. Sherlock grimaced. "You honestly expect me to believe there is a vampire lose in London."

" _I_ don't expect anything of the sort," Lestrade assured him, although Sherlock noted the way the other man's eyes shifted uneasily to the side.

"But others do." The consulting detective didn't bother couching it as a question.

Lestrade grimaced and gave a sharp nod. "No one at the Yard, mind. Or, at least, no one that anyone with a grain of common sense would take seriously. But the press . . ."

"Sensationalism sells papers," Watson offered. Lestrade nodded again.

Sherlock huffed and quickly crossed the sitting room to his office, the hem of his dressing gown fluttered dramatically around his legs. He snatched a book off one of his shelves and waved it in the general direction of the other two men. "Since this piece of dreck appeared in the shops in May, I've had to deal with tedious, time-wasting potential clients who see bloodthirsty ghouls in every shadow."

He tossed the book to Lestrade—who caught it on reflex—and perched on the edge of his desk. "Just last week I turned away an imbecile who was convinced his neighbour was a creature of the night simply because the man had an aversion to garlic and an unfortunate moustache." Sherlock cast a pointed sidelong look toward Watson. "This Bram Stoker chap did us no favours with his _Dracula_ , Inspector."

"I'm surprised you've read it, Holmes." Watson fairly smirked at him. "I would have thought such fanciful tale beneath you."

The memory of Hooper tucking a copy of the novel into her jacket pocket one late night as he and Inspector Dimmock had arrived to inspect a corpse flitted through Sherlock's mind.

He shook his head and tutted at Watson. "I thought it best to familiarize myself with the source behind the mild hysteria sweeping across the simpler minds of the city."

Sherlock turned his attention to Lestrade. The other man was busy thumbing through the book, pausing to glance at a page before moving on. "I would offer to let you borrow that, but you've already read it. Have you not, Inspector?"

Lestrade quickly closed the book and dropped it on the table next to Sherlock's chair, narrowly missing the slipper full of pipe tobacco kept there. "As you said, it seemed a good idea."

Watson leaned forward to take the novel, then settled back into his chair with it. "I haven't had the pleasure. If you don't mind my borrowing it?" He titled the book in Sherlock's direction.

"Please, help yourself." Sherlock waited until Watson had deposited the book with the rest of his things to continue questioning Lestrade. "Tell me everything. From the beginning."

The Inspector sat upon the chair they reserved for clients and pulled out his notebook. "Two weeks ago a tart stopped off to do a bit of trade in an alley off Smithfield Park. She and her associate had just begun to negotiate the terms when there was the sound of breaking glass and a man plummeted to his death from a second story window at their feet. Her screams summoned a constable, who maintained the scene until more help could arrive."

"I assume her 'associate' was long gone at that point?" Sherlock asked.

"Vanished before her first scream had faded into the night air." Lestrade flipped a page in his notebook. "The victim was an unknown male. Approximately twenty-five to thirty years of age. Average height, slightly below average weight. Nothing found on the body to help with identification."

Nothing found by the constables, more precisely. Sherlock was certain he would have better luck once he had a chance to exam the body and its belongings. "His clothes?"

Another page in the notebook. "Trousers were old but well kept. Shoes were dirty, reshod at least once. Socks repeatedly darned. No shirt."

"No shirt." Sherlock frowned as he considered what that could mean. "Anything else?"

"His pockets were empty, picked clean. There was an indication that he'd been wearing a ring prior to his death, an impression on his right index finger."

"And how," Watson interrupted, "does any of that lead to rumours of a vampire in London?"

"I'm getting to that, Doctor." Lestrade took a moment to look over his notes. "The cause of death—officially—is injuries sustained from the fall; but Doctor Hooper found something interesting in his examination of the body. The victim had lost a lot of blood, far more than could be accounted for on the ground or in the room he'd fallen from. Even stranger, Hooper found a rough puncture wound on the man's neck."

"Odd." Watson tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. "But not impossible to explain without relying on the supernatural."

Sherlock agreed with his friend, but he wasn't ready to offer an alternative yet. Not until Lestrade had finished relaying all of the details of the case.

"As the corpse had been stripped of anything of value, it appeared to be a cut and dried case of robbery turned fatal."

"Appeared?" Sherlock asked.

"The body was to be stored in the morgue at St Bartholomew's until an identification could be made, but it disappeared at some point during that second night."

"Body snatchers?" Watson appeared almost eager at the possibility.

"That would be better than the popular theory. We've had no leads on the original victim's identity or the whereabouts of his missing body in the last two weeks."

The corner of Sherlock's lips titled upward as he listened. "Original victim? How many more are there?" Could it be a serial killer? Those were always entertaining.

"Three more." If Lestrade found Sherlock's apparent enthusiasm at the idea of multiple murders off-putting, he didn't say. "Four days after the initial corpse vanished, another body was pulled out of the Thames. It hadn't been in the water too long, two or three days at most. She'd been caught in some rocks, probably hadn't been dumped too far from where she was found."

"Puncture wound on the neck?" That seemed to be the most likely detail that would tie the two crimes together, Sherlock thought.

Lestrade nodded. "No one noticed it at first because there had been extensive soft tissue damage, probably an animal of some kind. Between that and her time in the water . . . It's a miracle Hooper found it at all. This time the body was almost completely drained of blood. Hooper thinks the blood loss happened prior to our victim going into the Thames."

Both men turned to Watson to see if he had an objection to the pathologist's theory. "Without seeing the body I couldn't begin to offer an opinion."

"That won't be possible, I'm afraid." Lestrade grimaced. "She vanished hours after Hooper notified me of a possible connection. Five days later a worker at the Abbey Mills pumping station was investigating a sewer blockage and discovered victim number three. Dead nearly a week, drained of blood, wound found on the forearm this time."

Sherlock stood and began to dig through the piles of books and papers on strewn across his desk for his copy of _Anatomy: Descriptive and Surgical_ by Henry Gray. "And when did this one disappear?"

"That night. But not before we were able to get an identification for him. Burton Saunders, delivery boy who worked out of the Meat Market. His mum reported him missing eight days ago."

"Number four," Sherlock prompted. His copy of _Gray's Anatomy_ wasn't where he'd left it and he silently cursed Mrs Hudson's insistence on tidying up his rooms. He wasn't as familiar with the intricacies of the human body as Watson and Hooper, but he was fairly certain there were blood vessels in the forearm that would be large enough to tempt their ghoulish killer.

"Discovered just before dawn this morning, sitting pretty as you please leaning against the back door of a cobbler's shop."

The book search was abandoned in favour of peppering Lestrade with questions. "Was the body taken to St Bartholomew's? Has Hooper had a chance to exam it? The corpse thefts happen after dark, do they not? Which means we've still a few hours before the thieves should make their move. Why aren't you putting on your coats? To the morgue, gentleman."


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

Hooper was waiting for them when the three men finished their descent into the catacombs beneath St Bartholomew's.

The chilled air was no colder than usual for the morgue, but Sherlock caught Lestrade shiver and slow his steps as they approached the corpse. He pulled the man aside, a bit away from the others. "You've been down here many times and never hesitated before. What is it about this case that unsettles you so? Surely you don't secretly believe in that vampire nonsense."

"Of course not," Lestrade snapped. "It's only—Are you aware of the date, Holmes?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he thought back to the morning papers that Mrs Hudson had brought up to his rooms with his tea. The date had been clearly marked on each one. What was it? "October thirty-first. Why is that relevant?"

"It's All Hallows' Eve. The day the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest." Lestrade shifted from foot to foot and refused to make eye contact.

"I thought you didn't go in for that sort of superstitious rubbish?" Sherlock scoffed.

Judging from the chagrined expression on Lestrade's face, the other man was well aware of how childish he was behaving. "I don't. Not really. But consider the day and we're were standing, man. There is a body under that sheet that is the victim of a monster, be it a man or unearthly beast. Forgive me a moment's weakness, please."

With a sharp nod of understanding, Sherlock indicated that they should continue to where the others were standing.

Anderson hovered just behind Hooper's right shoulder. He kept folding and refolding the same towel, obviously wanting to stay close enough to overhear whatever might be said without attracting Hooper's wrath. There was another morgue assistant working at the back of the room. Sherlock had spoken to the man once and found him to be only slightly less irritating than Anderson.

Hooper impatiently tapped her fingers against the table next to the covered body as she waited.

Since the night two years ago in that old relic of a church, Sherlock's relationship—if one could call it that—with Hooper had changed. Their interactions were still brusque, but not as combative. He had deduced that some of Hooper's earlier hostility toward him had been born of fear of discovery. Once her secret had been revealed there had been a tentative cease fire in the petty squabbling. Still, there were occasions when she made it very clear that his presence in the morgue was unwelcome; but those instances were few and far between, and mostly fuelled by his own impatience and acerbic nature. In the morgue Hooper was king, and she never hesitated to remind him of that fact when he pushed too far.

As long as he made an effort to mind his manners and respect her authority they maintained a civil—by the loosest definition of the word—truce.

Sherlock stepped up to the table and looked down at the shrouded body. "You've already begun your examination. Where are his belongings, his clothes? I'll need to see them."

From his peripheral vision, he could see her small hand slide from the table to curl into a fist at her side. He raised his head to look at the narrowed eyes glaring back at him and realized his mistake. "Which you had the foresight to consider when they were removed, I'm sure. If you could direct me to them at your convenience, I would be most obliged."

Hooper's jaw clenched, but she nodded; a silent acceptance of the closest thing to an apology he would be likely to offer. "I've had Whittock prepare a table to give you space to work." She jerked her head toward the man at the back of the room.

Sherlock nodded. "The body first, I think."

"Before you begin, if I may turn your attention to three things?" Her hand hesitated over the sheet covering the corpse.

"Of course." While he normally preferred to make his observations without the influence of another's opinions, he'd long ago acknowledged that Hooper often had valuable insight to offer.

She pulled the sheet down to the corpse's waist and lifted his right arm. "Very faint abrasions like this are on all four limbs."

Sherlock bent closer, then pulled his magnifying glass out of his jacket pocket to examine the marks. "He was restrained. Did you find anything in the abrasions?"

"Several fibres. Whittock has them for you." She carefully lowered the arm and tucked it back against the body's side.

"The real features of interest are here." Before Sherlock could react to the strange inflection in her voice—Was she _teasing_ him?—Hooper flipped the sheet back further, exposing the corpse's groin and upper legs. She shifted one of its legs to expose the inner thigh. There were a pair of puncture wounds this time rather than just one, spaced closely together. Sherlock ignored Lestrade's huff of disgust as he sniffed at the wounds, his cheek coming rather close to making contact with the corpse's genitals.

"Carbolic acid?" He straightened. "Was that one of yours?" He gestured toward Anderson. "Or was it already there?"

Hooper shook her head. "No one other than myself has touched him since he was brought in."

Watson moved to Sherlock's side and stared down at the body. "Why would someone go to the trouble to apply antiseptic to a corpse?"

"Because the victim wasn't a corpse at the time," Sherlock answered. Hooper nodded in agreement.

"There's more. Do you see it?"

Both he and Watson leaned closer to the puncture marks.

"The bruising, it's only around one of the wounds," Sherlock observed. "Which means the other was-"

"Was made post-mortem," Watson finished the thought. "But why would someone do that?"

"If I were to hazard a guess," Hooper began. "And this is coloured by the stories populating the papers of late, is that the second wound was created purely to give the illusion that the victim was bled dry by someone, or something, with a pair of-"

"Fangs." Sherlock spit out the word as if it had personally offended him.

Hooper nodded again. "Precisely."


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three**

After they left the morgue, Lestrade escorted Sherlock and Watson to the cobbler's shop where victim number four had been found just that morning.

It came as no surprise to Sherlock that the constables canvasing the area had turned up not a single witness. He sent word out with one of his Irregulars that he would pay handsomely for valid information as to how the dead man ended up on the cobbler's stoop.

That was another thing that puzzled him.

Two of the other three victims had been discovered by accident, their killer had clearly taken means to dispose of them in such a way that they should have remained hidden. The first victim had, in all probability, managed to escape his would-be-killer; choosing almost certain death with a desperate jump from the second story to whatever fate awaited him at the hands of his assailant.

Yet the fourth . . . The fourth had been left out in the open, carefully arranged in a morbid caricature of peaceful slumber. The murderer wanted number four to be found.

The question was why?

The most obvious answer involved the pair of puncture wounds meant to look as they'd been made by a creature of the night. The killer wanted his charade to be discovered and talked about. He wanted to encourage the idea that there was a vampire loose amongst the London populace. But to what end? Wide spread panic and fear, or something else?

The victim's clothing had turned up very little in the way of identification for Lestrade, but a wealth of information for Sherlock. The trousers and shirt were new but too large, the jacket a full size too small. The shoes were interesting. Well-worn but clean, with only a small dark stain on the left heel. Sherlock was almost certain that the shoes actually belonged to the victim. Could there have been something on his own clothes that would have given the murderer away?

While Watson and Lestrade looked on, Sherlock dropped to his knees in the filthy alley and searched for clues. With less than an hour left until dusk, he finally sat back on his haunches and gestured to the area around him. "As I suspected, our victim didn't walk here under his own power."

"No one thought he did," Lestrade snorted. "We're not all imbeciles, no matter what you like to think, Holmes."

Sherlock raised a brow as if to silently say, "Are you certain of that, Inspector?"

Lestrade huffed and shoved his hands onto his hips. "Since our boy didn't walk here, how did he end up on that stoop?"

Sherlock stood and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe his hands. "He wasn't dragged through here, there were no signs of mud or-" He took a moment to sniff his handkerchief before passing it to Lestrade. "Urine, I believe."

Watson grimaced and lifted his foot to look at the bottom of his shoe. Lestrade rolled his eyes and tossed the soiled cloth back at Sherlock, who caught it and carefully folded it before tucking it into his coat pocket.

"Whomever brought him here was strong enough to carry more than eleven stones in dead weight. We're looking for a large man, one used to hefting and carrying considerable weight."

"Could it be more than one criminal?" Watson asked.

Sherlock considered it for a brief moment, then shook his head. "In general? Perhaps. But all the recent footprints near the door came from the same pair of shoes. The man who left the body came into this alley on his own. The print size and depth only confirms my theory that we're looking for a man of large stature."

Lestrade pulled out his notebook and scribbled down a note with his stub of a pencil. "That isn't very specific, is it? Do you have anything else you can give me?"

"Not yet, Inspector." Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he looked up at the small slice of darkening sky visible between the buildings surrounding the alley. "But the evening has just begun."


	4. Chapter 4

**Part Four**

St Bartholomew's was eerily quiet when Sherlock slipped through the ground floor halls to the stairs that lead down to the catacombs.

Lestrade had wanted to station guards at every entrance; whether to keep the body snatcher out or a walking corpse in, Sherlock could not be certain. He had instructed the Inspector to keep his men out of the hospital and out of sight so as to not spook the thief.

Sherlock wasn't even certain there would _be_ a theft as the murderer had as good as hand-delivered the corpse to the police in the first place, implying that he wanted the body to be brought to the morgue and examined.

The gas lamps had been extinguished, leaving the catacombs in near pitch black darkness. Sherlock paused at the foot of the stairs, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. With utmost caution, he inched across the floor, one hand against the wall to help steer him.

Oddly, there was a single lamp lit in the back of the morgue, the flame barely high enough to illuminate the three occupied tables. One of the sheet covered bodies was the latest victim of the St Bartholomew Vampire (according to the news-boy who had been hawking the evening papers in front of Baker Street when he'd stopped in for a change of clothes), but he would need to move closer to ascertain which of the three it was.

Sherlock waited for a long moment to ensure no one was skulking about, then eased toward the circle low light and the three corpses.

The nearly silent creak of shoe leather against the stone floor was his only warning that he was not alone. Sherlock ducked and spun out of pure instinct, his hands coming up in defence as a heavy porcelain bowl passed dangerously close to his head. He grabbed his assailant's wrist to divert another attack . . .

And felt the delicate bones grind together under his fingers.

"Hooper," Sherlock gasped in recognition, loosening his hold enough to no longer cause her pain but not enough to allow her to finish what would have been a devastating blow should it have connected.

"Holmes?"

His "What are you doing here?" was whispered at the same time as she quietly hissed "What the hell are you doing in my morgue?"

Sherlock closed his eyes to gather his thoughts. The lack of visual stimulation seemed to amplify the tactile sensations coming from his fingertips. Hooper's wrist was small and feminine, her skin so very soft.

He released her with a bitten off curse and took a large step back, eyes opening to scan the room for any sign that they may have been discovered by the body thief.

"I'm here for the same reason you are, it would seem. To catch a criminal in the act." He frowned as he considered how Hooper's presence might alter his initial plans.

"Planning to take the vampire on all by yourself, were you?" Her tone was mocking, but different than what he was used to hearing from Hooper. For the first time since that long-ago night two years prior, she spoke to him in her own voice rather than the guttural, masculine rasp she'd adopted for her Hooper persona.

He had forgotten how the sound of her true voice had made something warm curl up in the pit of his stomach.

The feeling made him uncomfortable, causing him to snap back. "Were you? I doubt a basin would do much to incapacitate a ghoul."

"Would have given you quite the headache, though." She smirked at him.

Smirked!

The urge to snipe at her, tell her he always came away from their meetings with an aching head, was strong but he somehow managed to hold his tongue. What was it about Hooper that put him so ill at ease, that made his very skin prickle and warm, that made him ache to be the focus of her intense brown eyes, to . . . Oh, dear God above, he was beginning to sound like one of Watson's lovesick letters to Mary.

Sherlock's eyes widened in horror and he took another step back.

Hooper frowned at him in confusion, her lips pulling downward under her moustache.

He searched both the room and his mind for something to distract her from his inability to continue their usual give-and-take. "Where were you hidden? I didn't see you when I entered."

"You walked right past me." She turned and lead him toward the small room she used as an office during the day, ushering him inside with a hand against his back. Sherlock shivered under her touch and tried to move away, bumping into her desk in the process.

The tiny room was completely dark other than the sliver of dim light curling around the door that had been left cracked open. He'd been in her office once before, just long enough to make note of the space and the layout of furniture inside of it. There had been a large desk taking up the entirety of the east wall, an uncomfortable looking desk chair that stuck out into the middle of the room even when Hooper had tried to tuck it under the desk, and a single cabinet in the north-west corner. The remaining floor space was limited at best, barely large enough for the two of them to stand without touching.

She leaned against the wall and resumed her watch, looking through the space between the door and the frame. If he pressed his chest against her back in order to be able to do the same, surely no one could fault him?

The theatrical smell of the trappings of her disguise assaulted his nostrils; the wig, spirit gum, even the masculine aroma of her cologne (which shared many of the same notes as his own, Sherlock was surprised to discover). Yet beneath it all was the faint fragrance of a woman.

His eyes fluttered closed as he inhaled deeply, searching for more of her scent.

"Holmes?" Hooper had stilled against him, her breath frozen in her lungs.

Sherlock immediately straightened, putting a hair's breadth between their bodies. "Forgive me . . . Your wig, it threatened to make me sneeze." He grimaced at his own idiocy, relieved that the lack of light hid the embarrassed flush that briefly stained his cheeks and throat.

"Of-of course," Hooper stammered. Her shoulders curled inward, widening the distance between them even more.

He had no idea how long they stood watch in silence. He could hear Hooper shifting her weight from foot to foot, a clear indication that she was growing uncomfortable with standing still for so long.

Then, with no prior warning, she quietly spoke. "Why haven't you told anyone?"

The fine hairs on the nape of his neck prickled as he continued to peer past the door. There was a weight to her question, something far greater than simple curiosity.

"Every day since you discovered my secret I have lived in dread of the moment the Board of Governors calls for my blood and has me removed from my position. Arrested." He felt her shoulder brush against his chest as she half-turned to look up at him. "I go back to my rooms at night and have that insidious moment of fear that my landlady has had all of my things tossed into the street. I ask again, why haven't you reported my deception? What are you waiting for?"

Sherlock brought his attention from his vigil to meet her shadowed gaze. "Why would I? Your sex has no detrimental impact on your intelligence or skills. None of the imbeciles who work under you are half as qualified. I shudder to think of the state of the morgue if left in Anderson's hands." He frowned, confused as to why they were even discussing the matter. "It is clearly in my best interest to ensure you remain employed at St Bartholomew, as it has always been from the day we first met."

She turned to face him fully, and he noticed yet again how she was so much smaller than him. If he were to pull her into his arms, his lips would be able to graze her forehead. Sherlock blinked away the stray thought.

"Are you implying that you knew . . . from the beginning?" Hooper questioned.

"I'm not implying anything; I'm stating a fact." How could she think he wouldn't have noticed? "Stamford had confidence in your abilities; and other than your antagonistic nature, I had no reason to find fault with your methods. There was no reason to call attention to your sex and risk your removal."

Hooper stared at him for a long moment. He could barely make out the way she pulled her lower lip between her teeth as she considered his words. "But-but you hate me?" Whether she had intended it to or not, it came out as a question.

"I rarely bother to expend enough effort to hate anyone, Hooper. Yourself included." The opposite, in fact, as Sherlock had recently come to discover.

"But all these years? The sniping and posturing, and all the rest."

Sherlock cleared his throat and focused on the room beyond the door, unable to bring himself to look at her expression and see the pity or disgust that would surely appear there. "Not hatred. Never that."

Her soft "Oh" was the only sound for a long while.

Eventually her continued fidgeting caused him bite out a softly growled, "Sit before you fall, Hooper. I'll keep watch."

"No," she huffed in reply. "I'm not helpless or weak. If you can stand, so will I."

"Oh for-You stubborn fool." He spoke over her sputtered objection. "We'll both sit, but I shall take the spot closest to the door. The necessity of peering over your head has given me a pain in my back."

With only one or two mild grumbles, she slipped past him and lowered herself to the floor at his feet. Sherlock hesitated only a moment before joining her. There wasn't enough room for him to stretch out his legs, so he brought his knees up and shifted until he found a position that wasn't too uncomfortable.

"It was never hate on my part, either," Hooper whispered so low he barely heard it. He briefly felt the touch of her hand against the back of his own.

He stared unseeing at the door and willed his heart to slow its accelerated pounding.

Hours later something brought him out of a sound sleep. His legs were numb, and his arm was wrapped around the solid weight that pressed against his chest and shoulder. His cheek brushed against the not-quite natural strands of a wig and he knew . . .

Hooper was in his arms.

His lowered his head until his lips barely brushed against her forehead, just as he'd imagined not long ago. Her skin was soft and warm and oh-so-tempting. Would it be so wrong to lift her chin and press his lips against hers? Despite the moustache, the urge was there.

Furtive cursing brought Sherlock out of his daze. He shook Hooper awake and struggled to his feet just as a door slammed somewhere in the catacombs.

Hooper pushed past him and out the door, but she stopped dead at the sight of only two sheet covered bodies. "Damn it all to Hades and back, how did we both fall asleep?"

Sherlock had no wish to admit that he must have been lulled into unconsciousness by the steady sound of her breathing and the comfort of her close proximity. "That's not important now, what is important is finding the body snatcher before he gets too far. Quickly!"

Unfortunately, by the time they made it to the ground floor of the hospital and out the closest exit, there was no sign of the thief or his burden.

"Now what do you suggest?" Hooper huffed as she bent to rest her hands on her knees, out of breath.

"Now we hope that one of Lestrade's men has succeeded where we have failed." His scepticism was apparent in his tone.

Less than half an hour later, Sherlock and Hooper were giving their statements (glossing over the exact circumstances of how they came to fall asleep) when a constable ran up to them, calling Lestrade's name in a voice loud enough to wake one of the inhabitants of Hooper's morgue.

"Sir, we've found him! The body. You'll need to see this, sir. You're not going to believe it."

They followed the runner to the Priory Church of St Bartholomew the Great. Sherlock could see the gathered crowd of policemen and horrified Londoners standing around something laid out upon the ground near the church door. Lestrade pushed his way through the on-lookers and stopped as soon as he made his way inside the circle, Sherlock and Hooper at his heels.

Number four was arranged as if in repose with his hands carefully folded across his stomach. There was, however, a stake firmly embedded in his chest; and his head had been cleanly removed and placed just above the stump of his neck. Something peeked out from between his lips.

Both Sherlock and Hooper dropped to their knees next to the decapitated body and each pulled a pair of gloves out of their respective jacket pockets.

"May we?" Sherlock asked Lestrade, merely as a formality to help Lestrade save face as the man was surrounded by his subordinates.

Lestrade sighed and waved his hand. "Yeah, all right."

Hooper delicately opened the head's mouth so that Sherlock could carefully extract a nearly intact Holy Wafer.

She whispered across the body to him, "The body's only been missing half an hour. To do this much damage in that limited time frame . . . What kind of a butcher are we looking for?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Part Five**

Mrs Hudson was going to mutiny. For the second day in a row Sherlock had come home smelling of filth and human waste. She had complained about the stench of his clothes the evening before when he'd stopped in to change after he'd examined the alley where number four had been found.

She was going to threaten to withhold his morning tea, or worse, when she caught sight (and smell) of the state of his clothing this afternoon.

He and Watson had visited the building from which victim number one had jumped to his death. The alley had given up no useful evidence, but Sherlock had not expected anything of value after two weeks. The room, however, had yielded a few interesting items that he had brought back to Baker Street before he and Watson met with Lestrade for an official escort to the Abbey Mills pumping station.

Lestrade and Watson had both expressed dismay at the thought of visiting the sewer, but Sherlock had remained adamant that it was a necessary excursion.

He had questioned several of the sanitation workers as to what areas of the city fed into the pumping station, especially the pipes that led into the area where Burton Saunders (number three) had been discovered.

Then he had insisted on seeing the tunnels and pipes for himself. Lestrade had tried to beg off but the station supervisor (whom Sherlock deduced had a brother-in-law with an unfortunate history of arrests, and therefore a grudge against law enforcement) refused to allow Sherlock access without the Inspector's company. Watson had merely sighed in resignation without protest, and handed his coat and jacket to the supervisor to store in his office.

They had ended up paying the carriage driver double the normal fare just to secure transport home. Baker Street had been the first destination; and he had disembarked and counted his blessings that Mrs Hudson had been otherwise occupied at the back of the house rather than available to greet him at the front stoop. He'd quietly toed off his boots and left them in the vestibule, hoping that she wouldn't have cause to answer the door until he'd had a chance to scrub off the worst of it.

He scaled the stairs, making sure to avoid the loose board on the landing that never failed to creak underfoot.

Sherlock paused in on his way through his sitting room as he noticed a valise leaning against Watson's chair. He considered whether or not to summon an Irregular to take it to the Watson home as he entered the bathroom and began to strip off his soiled clothing.

The cold water in his basin was refreshing against his skin. He took extra time rinsing off his hair and running a wet cloth along his arms, neck, and chest. He had just reached for the buttons at his fly when the landing groaned under someone's weight.

Certain that Watson had realized he'd left his bag and returned for it, Sherlock didn't bother putting his shirt back on or even shrugging into his braces. Watson had seen him in far worse condition and was quite aware of Sherlock's intentions to bathe as soon as he had returned to Baker Street.

Except the person standing in his sitting room, arms crossed behind their back, was not Watson.

"Hooper? I-I wasn't expecting you . . . or anyone. Not for hours, yet, I mean. Why are you here?"

Her eyes had been drawn to his mouth while he'd been talking, but as soon as he'd fallen silent Hooper's gaze had dropped lower. She quickly looked away, cheeks flushing becomingly above her moustache; and he had to wonder if she found what she saw appealing.

"You asked me to come by this afternoon, and it's nearly half four already." She risked a glance in his direction, then turned to face the mantel. "I could come back since you are clearly not prepared to entertain guests."

 _Could, not should_ , he noted. "No need for false modesty. I've nothing you haven't seen before."

Hooper whipped around to face him, her eyes wide in shock. "I-I don't-You presume too much, Holmes."

Sherlock frowned in confusion. He'd said something to offend her, obviously. He paled as understanding hit him. "My apologies. I was simply making reference to your work at St Bartholomew's. Nothing more. I assure you that my anatomy is no different from the male specimens that have found their way into your morgue."

"Somehow I doubt that," Hooper muttered under her breath.

Wisely, both of them pretended that she hadn't said a word. Sherlock leaned out of his sitting room door to call down the stairs. "Tea, Mrs Hudson! For two, if you please."

He turned back just in time to catch Hooper looking away from his backside, her earlier blush returned two-fold. Sherlock hid his pleasure at the confirmation of Hooper's obvious interest in his form by pointing to a pile of detritus that he'd brought back from his excursion that morning. "I'l make myself presentable while we wait for tea, shall I? In the meantime, tell me what you make of that."

A clean pair of trousers and a shirt were quickly procured from his wardrobe, as were his smalls and another set of braces from his dresser. As an afterthought, he grabbed a dressing gown from the foot of his bed before returning to the bathroom to finish his ablutions.

"Do speak up, Hooper," Sherlock called out as he left the bathroom door open a crack so that he could hear her.

She was silent so long he began to worry that she had left. Sherlock dropped his dirty clothing on the bathroom floor and had just pulled on the new pair of trousers when he heard her speak.

"This rubber tubing, there's not a lot of it but I've seen similar before. As to the broken glass—the larger, thicker pieces are clearly from a bottle of some kind. There is a marking on one of the smaller pieces, almost as if . . . Hypodermic syringe?"

"Yes, that was my deduction as well." Sherlock stepped into his office and moved to her side. He'd slicked his wet hair back from his face, but hadn't bothered to look for another pair of shoes before joining her. "This bit of bent metal here, I suspect it once was part of the syringe as well. What would all these items possibly have in common with a man who had lost a considerable amount of blood?"

Hooper ran her fingers over the rubber tubing, then picked it up to examine it further. "I witnessed a procedure during my medical training, yet I never had occasion to attempt it myself. Your Doctor Watson may be a better judge in the matter, but I would suggest the possibility that your killer had been attempting a blood transfusion."

Sherlock smiled, pleased with her thought process and how it corresponded so well with his own. "I shall speak with him later to confirm the possibility of our hypothesis."

Her answering smile made his pulse rate increase. He swallowed hard as his gaze dropped to her lips. Then her smile faded into a frown; and Sherlock felt a moment of irrational terror that she had noticed and disapproved of his attention.

"A competent doctor would never take so much blood for a transfusion, though. If a patient needed a large quantity, there would need to be several donors so as to not tax one body to the point of death." Hooper pushed away from his desk and moved toward the late afternoon sunlight streaming through windows.

"What if the person, or persons, who needed the blood did not care if the donor lived or died? What if they actually preferred if the victim died, as it would ensure their silence?"

"But why would someone do that?"

Sherlock stepped into the sitting room, his bare feet silent on the rug. "Have you no theories, Molly?"

She spun toward him. "No one's called me that in years."

He took another cautious step forward. "Since your father died?"

Hooper—Molly, in this moment she was Molly.—shook her head in disbelief. "How could you possibly know that?"

"I was . . . curious as to what would make a woman go to such extreme lengths. The information is there if one knows where, and how, to look."

She bristled. Her expression turned cold, and he rushed on in an effort to keep her from closing off from him completely.

"It's commendable, really, what you did to honour your father's wishes. You were a few years out of school when he passed. The man who took over his practice refused to let you continue on once your father was gone, didn't he?" He moved closer until they were near enough to touch if only one of them would reach out to the other. "I imagine he insisted it was no place for a young woman, regardless of your experience."

Molly nodded. "Papa was so disappointed when the rejection letters started to come. My academic record was exemplary but only one university would accept Miss Margaret Hooper, and without a scholarship there was no way we could have afforded to have me sent to London to study at the School of Medicine for Women."

Her hands folded together, and he could see the way her fingers twisted against each other in agitation as she continued to speak. "Papa said if the universities were too pig-headed and ignorant to acknowledge my talent and will to learn, then he would teach me himself. We lived in a small village, and as long as his patients thought he was supervising my work and making all the decisions then no one objected to my presence in the clinic and exam rooms."

"Until he died."

"Until he died," Molly echoed. "It was as if all those years of dedication and service had never happened. Suddenly I was just a foolish young girl who had been playing at being a nurse."

Sherlock wanted to reach out and draw her into his arms, to offer comfort for the cruelties of her past.

Molly grimaced and looked at a spot over his shoulder, unable or unwilling to look him in the eye. "Then the suitors began to sniff around, hoping for a chance to claim my inheritance. Men who showed no interest in me when I spent every spare moment contributing to their good health were suddenly very keen to assure me I'd make a proper little housewife with just a bit of tutoring in the fine art of domesticity."

He couldn't contain a snort of amusement at her words. "Come now, Hooper. Anyone who knew you, really knew you, could not fail to note that you were not meant to be a 'proper little' anything, much less a housewife."

"What do you mean by that?" She bristled again.

Somehow he'd managed to say the wrong thing, yet again. "I am sure that had you wanted to marry and tend to a household, you would have excelled at it. But I will be eternally grateful that your ambition pointed elsewhere. St Bartholomew will suffer greatly should you ever chose to leave."

"And you?" Molly took a tiny step toward him and turned her face up to him. "Would you suffer if I were to leave?"

The sound of Mrs Hudson bustling up the stairs kept him from answering. Not that he had any idea of what he would have said.

The older woman smiled at Hooper and waved the tea tray toward the table next Watson's chair, indicating that she wanted Sherlock to clear a spot. "Good afternoon, Doctor Hooper. I hope you like ginger biscuits. They're all I had on hand. If I'd known Mr Holmes was planning to entertain, I would have prepared something a bit more substantial for tea."

"Ginger biscuits are my favourite," Hooper quickly reassured her.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took the tray from Mrs Hudson. "They aren't. Hooper is just being polite." He set the tray down and smiled affectionately at the older woman. "However, they are a favourite of mine, as you well know. Rest assured they shan't go to waste. Off you go, Mrs Hudson. Doctor Hooper and I have things to discuss."

He waited until she was most of the way down the stairs to close the sitting room door and turn back to Hooper.

"So, where were we?" Before she could reply he hurried to the tea tray and began to prepare a cup for her. "Blood transfusions. We were discussing why someone would need all that blood. Milk? Sugar?"

"Sugar, thank you."

Sherlock kept his head down as he handed her the cup and then poured his own. By the time he gestured for her to sit in Watson's chair he had managed to get his thoughts back under control. "The initial puncture marks could have come from a transfusion needle, correct?"

"That would be consistent with the wound size, yes." She took a sip and then set her cup on the table.

"Why keep them alive while taking their blood, though. Wouldn't it be easier to kill them and take their blood that way? Obviously the first victim resisted," Sherlock pondered out loud.

Hooper grimaced. "I don't blame him. If his escape attempt had ended in anything other than death, I would have thought him lucky for having enough will to summon the energy to get away. Being bled is not an easy way to die." A shudder wracked her small frame. "As to why he keeps his victims alive, I can only imagine that he needs a beating heart continue to circulate the blood."

They sat in silence for several minutes while both pondered the killer's possible motives.

Hooper finished a ginger biscuit, then leaned forward so that her elbows rested on her knees. "In a normal instance, a transfusion would be used to replace a patient's blood lost due to haemorrhaging. There are other uses, of course. There are some diseases of the blood that could, in theory, be treated with transfusions from a healthy donor but the experiments I've read about don't have consistent results."

Sherlock's tapped his steepled fingers against his chin. "Of course," he muttered to himself.

After another few minutes of silence, Hooper stood. "I'll leave you to your thinking, then. It's been an enlightening afternoon, Holmes."

Sherlock jumped to his feet and hurried across the room to get to the door before she could reach it. "Wait, before you leave . . . Come back to Baker Street tomorrow evening, and stay for dinner." The offer—No, it was more of a plea.—tumbled from his lips. "I could ensure we remained undisturbed for a few hours if you would like to-to let your hair down."

He closed his eyes and grimaced as he realized how improper his words must sound. Currently dressed as a man she might be, but Hooper was still a woman. Even he knew a proper gentleman did not suggest such things to a lady.

Not that he'd ever been accused of being a gentleman.

She blushed, yet he knew as soon as she parted her small, perfect lips that she was going to refuse his offer. "I'm afraid the risk of accidental discovery would be too great. From what I've heard, people come and go from Baker Street with alarming frequency, not matter the time or day."

Hooper continued to look regretful. "Then there is the matter of my-" She gestured toward her moustache and wig. "The illusion of Martin Hooper requires time and supplies to prepare. I can't just reapply them on a moment's whim."

It was on the tip of his tongue to offer that he had more than enough spirit gum and similar items stashed away for when he needed to alter his appearance on a case when she spoke again. She kept her eyes down, focused on their feet, rather than looking at him as she said, "I will be home all evening tomorrow, barring a need for my presence at St Bartholomew's, of course. Should you find yourself at loose ends for an hour or two, I could prepare a light meal for us to share." She bit her lower lip as she waited for his answer.

He had the sudden—and utterly unexpected—desire to drag his thumb across that lip to urge it free from the prison of her teeth. His hands clenched at his sides in an effort to restrain them. Sherlock's mind tormented him with the memory of the only time he'd ever seen her dressed as Molly, sans the masculine trappings required for her day to day life. The desire to see her that way again was nearly overwhelming.

He swallowed and nodded. "I shall send word by the afternoon if I will be able to join you."

There would be no 'if'. Nothing short of a major break in the St Bartholomew Vampire case would keep him from spending the evening in Molly's company.

Her lips blossomed into a smile. Even with the wig and moustache, he thought her a thing of beauty when she smiled. In the back of his mind a voice not unlike his brother's mocked him for falling prey to foolish sentiment. Sherlock told the voice to bugger off.

"I look forward to seeing you tomorrow . . . Sherlock."

The sound of his name on her lips was his undoing. He slowly lowered his head—giving her time to step away if she chose—until his mouth brushed against hers. The tickle of her moustache wasn't unforgivably unpleasant, but he would have preferred it not be there at all. Her lips were soft and warm. Molly gasped, and Sherlock groaned as her lips parted against his. As if he had no control over his own body, he wrapped his arms around her slight form and pulled her close. Her hands landed on his shoulders, then slid upward to tangle in his still damp hair.

"Sherlock! Doctor Watson is here, he said he's come for his valise!" Mrs Hudson's voice echoing up from the lower floor had them jumping apart as if they were guilty children.

Hooper's hand flew up to ensure her moustache was still in place. Sherlock smoothed the lapels of his dressing gown to keep from reaching for her once more.

Watson paused at the top of the stairs and stepped out of the way so that Hooper could hurry past. He took one look at Sherlock and then grinned. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything _too_ interesting."

"Hooper and I were merely discussing the vampire case." Sherlock stalked back into the sitting room and reached for his cold cup of tea.

"Of course, of course." Watson continued to grin. "You may want to smooth down your hair, Holmes. It seems to have become rather mussed."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** I want to include a warning - There is a child's (thirteen years old) death discussed in this chapter, brief but slightly graphic details of the circumstances of her death. Please do not read this chapter if that will trigger you. To sum up the chapter for anyone who chooses to skip it - Another victim of the St Bartholomew Vampire is discovered, and Sherlock finally puts the pieces together.

 **Part Six**

Mrs Hudson had just cleared away the mostly untouched breakfast tray from his desk when someone began to pound on the front door. He heard her greet their guest, then instruct them to head upstairs. By the time Lestrade finished his climb, Sherlock was already shrugging into his coat.

"Another?" he asked, although he already suspected the answer.

Lestrade nodded, his expression grim. "He took a child this time. She was only reported missing last evening. Her mother sent her off to the market yesterday afternoon, but she never came home."

Sherlock froze on the landing as something teased at the back of his mind. Something hovered just out of reach. Something important.

Lestrade stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at him. "What is it, Holmes?"

Whatever it was that teased him disappeared as if it were a puff of smoke. Sherlock shook his head and bounded down the stairs. "Nothing. Where was she found?"

"St John's Gate. Just left her there as if she were a broken doll, with her empty market basket in her lap," Lestrade snarled. "Promise me we'll find this bastard, Holmes."

"I shall do everything in my power to grant you that promise, Inspector." Sherlock swept through the front door and hurried into the waiting carriage. "Instruct your driver, we shall need to collect Watson before heading on to St John's Gate."

The ride to Watson's home occurred in silence. Lestrade was familiar enough with Sherlock's methods to know when the consulting detective needed to be alone with his thoughts. Sherlock steepled his fingers against his chin and went deep into his mind palace in search of the elusive _something_ that had escaped him earlier.

What felt like mere moments later, Watson called his name. Sherlock jerked to attention to find they had arrived at St John's Gate.

This time there was a witness, of sorts. A drunkard who had passed the night huddled in a nearby stoop had seen a brute of a man hefting a large sack.

"Eyes as black as coal, he had. His teeth were long and razor sharp." The drunkard looked around at the small audience he'd managed to attract as he repeated his story for Sherlock's benefit. "Chilled me very bones just to see him."

Sherlock scoffed, "I'm sure it did. Then you warmed yourself with the rest of the contents of your bottle, I presume?"

"Holmes," Watson hissed in his ear.

"Fine. Yes, of course, let's continue to listen to the drunken ramblings of . . . I'm sorry, I didn't bother to remember to your name."

"It's Jonathon," the drunk offered.

"I do not care!" Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "Large man with a sack. Everything else is a fairy story brought on by drink and imagination. Still, now we know how he's transporting them."

His eyes unfocused as he considered the amount of strength and stamina that would be necessary. How far could a man, even a brute of one, travel with such a burden. Where was he coming from?

On the carriage ride to St Bartholomew's Sherlock examined the street maps in his mind, placing markers at the locations where the bodies had been found. A different set of markers were placed at the last known locations of the two victims that had been identified. A third was firmly planted at St Bartholomew's from where the bodies had been stolen. A fourth at the church where the scene had been staged to look as if a vigilante vampire hunter had been at work.

As they entered the hospital and headed for the catacombs, they passed a constable standing alongside a man cradling an inconsolable, sobbing woman to his chest.

"Her parents," Lestrade whispered for Sherlock and Watson's benefit. "They want to take her home, but Hooper convinced them to wait until you've had a chance to examine her."

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the couple, then made a split-second decision. He spun on his heel and moved toward them. Behind him he could hear Watson urging him that now was not the time, but Sherlock ignored his friend.

He stopped next to the grieving couple and cleared his throat. The father lifted his head to stare at Sherlock with red rimmed eyes. "Yes?"

"I-I just-" Sherlock swallowed hard and tried again. "I just want you to know that we will find the man who-who hurt your child, and he will pay for his crimes."

His words only seemed to make the mother cry that much harder, but the father simply jerked his head once in acknowledgement.

Sherlock returned to Watson's side.

"What was that about?" Watson asked as they continued down the stairs.

"I have no idea. It was just something I felt the need to do." He knew that years ago he wouldn't have even considered attempting to offer comfort, lacking as it may be, to a victim's family. It was yet another sign of how Watson's companionship had humanized him to some extent. A realization that would have sent him into a panic at one time.

The morgue was unusually well lit when they entered. Every gas lamp had been turned up, even a few hand-held lamps had been brought down to the catacombs and set near the table where the small body waited for him.

Hooper came out of her office as soon as she heard them arrive. His pulse speed up when he saw her, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel ashamed at his body's inadvertent reaction to her presence in circumstances such as this.

Her gaze softened when it fell on him, for just a brief moment; and then her expression hardened as she stepped around the table to draw back the sheet that had covered the child's face.

The little girl couldn't have been more than thirteen or fourteen.

"Thirteen," Hooper confirmed without him even needing to voice his thought. "I spoke with her parents earlier. Their only child," she quietly added.

She carefully rearranged the sheet to expose the child's inner thigh while keeping the rest of her body covered. "Two punctures, as with the last one. Second wound made post-mortem."

Sherlock nodded. He retrieved his magnifying glass and bent to inspect the girl's face and hair. "Was she restrained?"

Hooper lifted the corpse's right arm and cradled it between her hands. "She fought him."

High above the deep abrasions around her wrist was a hand-shaped bruise that encircled her arm, each finger clearly defined. The killer had grabbed her, possibly held her down while she struggled.

"Christ," Watson breathed at his side. The doctor hovered his hand just over the girl's jaw. "He covered her mouth, too. To keep her from crying out?"

"That was my thought as well." Hooper leaned her hands upon the table and bowed her head to hide her expression. Sherlock could hear the disgust and repulsion in her voice. "This beast snatched a child off the street and dragged her to his lair so he could do his dirty work without interruption."

Hooper lifted her face and her gaze seemed to bore directly into his. "Do you have any idea how long it takes to do this to someone? It's not a quick process. It takes time, solitude. And then he'd have to smuggle her away without being seen. Not to mention all that blood. Where does he take them, Holmes? Where?"

His mind reeled, Hooper's voice echoing "Where does he take them" over and over.

"Let me think!" Sherlock barked. He took a step back from the table and closed his eyes. The street maps he'd marked earlier returned to his thoughts, quickly followed by his conversations with the sanitation workers at the Abbey Mills pumping station. Walking around the room from which the first victim had thrown himself. The drunk at St John's Gate. The pumping station where the Meat Market delivery boy's body had been found. The desecrated corpse who had been staked and decapitated at the church. The child on the table who had been abducted on her way to the market.

Hooper's horrified voice asking "What kind of a butcher are we looking for?"

"The market!" Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

Lestrade and Watson both looked up from where they'd been quietly discussing the case against the wall, out of the way of Hooper and the morgue assistant that wasn't Anderson as they tended to another body.

 _Whittock_ , his inner Mycroft helpfully supplied. _Only been employed at St Bartholomew's three months, not getting enough sleep, new-born child at home, wife is ill and unable to work._

It was apparent that he'd been in his mind palace some considerable time from the way the others had gone on to do other things as they waited.

"The Smithfield Meat Market. No one would think it out of place for a man, a butcher, to smell of blood and new death in a meat market. The railway tunnels and delivery lifts underneath would assist his effort to remain undetected. Large carcasses are brought in and out every morning. Who would question another sack of meat mixed in with the beef and pork?"

Lestrade straightened, his whole body tightened like a cat preparing to pounce. "It's not much, but it's more than we had before. I'll send a runner to the Yard for more men. If we're going to search the Market and the tunnels, we shall need all the able bodies the Yard has to spare."

"Excellent." Sherlock held out a hand to forestall the Inspector. "But first, you should start with our man Whittock here."

Everyone turned to the morgue assistant, who had frozen at the mention of his name.

"The St Bartholomew Vampire couldn't have gained entrance to the catacombs on his own. He needed an inside man to let him in. Someone in need desperate need of money. Am I correct, Whittock?"

Whittock's shoulders slumped. "I didn't have anything to do with the killings, I swear it. A man came to me. He offered me five quid to make sure the doors were unlocked. I didn't know what he was going to do. Not the first time."

Hooper's hands clenched into fists at her side. "And the second? Third? Fourth? Where you going to do the same tonight, and let him steal a child away from her parents?" she snarled.

"When I realized what he'd done, I was sick to my stomach. You have to believe me, Doctor," the man beseeched Hooper. "But he came back and warned me that I was an accessory now. He'd have me reported to the police and they'd take my little boy away. There'd be no one to care for Celia." He turned to beg the others. "My wife is sick, my son is only a baby. He threatened them, said he knew people who could make them suffer. I couldn't risk it. I thought—You lot were supposed to catch him!"

Watson cursed under his breath.

Lestrade looked ill. "All this time, right under our noses. If you'd told us, we could have got you a deal with the prosecutor. We could have ended this weeks ago. That little girl's blood is on your hands."

Whittock's eyes began to mist up. "Just make sure my family is safe, and I'll take full responsibility for what I've done."

"I'll make sure of it," Sherlock agreed. "You'll go to prison for this, but I'll make sure your wife and son are cared for." He had an acquaintance, a woman in Sussex Downs, who would be willing to offer them shelter in exchange for the wife's service as maid or cook once she'd recovered from her illness.

"Thank you, Mister Holmes. Thank you."

Lestrade grabbed Whittock by the arm and led him away. Watson followed. Sherlock moved to do the same, but Hooper's hand on his arm stilled him.

"Be careful." The masculine timber was missing from her words, Molly's true voice in its place, and Sherlock's breath caught in his lungs. "Don't forget you've promised to join me for dinner tonight, Sherlock." He could see concern in her expression.

"I have not forgotten. It's . . . all I could think of after you left Baker Street. I will be there, Molly. Do not doubt it."

Then he turned and followed the others, determined to find the butcher and end this nightmare once and for all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Part Seven**

The railway tunnels beneath the Smithfield Meat Market echoed with distant rumbles from trains farther down the line. Most of the rail traffic beneath the market occurred in the early morning, so Lestrade and his men weren't in constant fear of an oncoming engine as they searched the tunnels.

The Inspector had sent more than a dozen men—half of them in plain clothes—to walk through the market, looking for anyone who might fit the vague description Sherlock had been able to work out.

Tall, broad shoulders, thick arms. Despite all that he would have a pleasant, non-threatening countenance. His victims did not struggle too much (other than the last), which indicated that they were not expecting an attack until it was sprung.

Sherlock and Watson chose to accompany Lestrade into the tunnels. It was the most likely location for the butcher's lair (to paraphrase Hooper). If they found the lair, then they only had to wait for the monster to come home to roost.

It took until mid-afternoon to discover the small door set back from the tracks. It opened to a short, unlit tunnel that terminated in a sturdy, locked door. It took the combined forces of Sherlock and Lestrade launching themselves at the door to push it off its frame, but once it swung open it was Watson who hurried through first.

The room had obviously been intended as storage for the railway. Shelving ran the length of two walls. There were hand-held lamps, jugs of oil, a pile of pristine wicks. Shovels and pick axes were propped against the shelves. Other items that Sherlock couldn't identify by name were shoved into every open space. There was a chest against the third wall, and a case of glass bottles similar to the broken one he'd found at Smithfield Park. A smaller green bottle lay atop the chest (a cautious sniff told Sherlock the bottle contained a concoction of chlorodyne). A large sack and a pile of clothing were crumpled up in the corner, as if they had been thrown there.

Most importantly, in the centre of the small room was a table not unlike the ones found in Hooper's morgue. Strapped to the table was an unconscious man, stripped naked and gagged. Rubber tubing stretched from the needle embedded in his arm, through a strange apparatus, to another bottle. The bottle was only half full, much to Sherlock's relief.

While he'd been taking in the details of the room, looking for any clues as to the murderer's identity or current location, Watson had been doing his duty as a medical man. He called out urgent instructions to Lestrade as he removed the needle and tended to the victim. "He's breathing, but cold. His heart is beating far to fast. Cover him with something, we need to keep him warm. Quickly, use your coat, Inspector!"

Once Watson deemed the still unconscious man stable enough to be moved, a pair of constables hurriedly removed him from the small room and toward an access point further down the track. The victim would be removed to St Bartholomew's as quickly as possible.

The chest, as Sherlock had deduced, contained additional bottles full of blood carefully packed on a thick bed of straw covering blocks of ice; likely blood taken from the girl that had been killed the evening prior.

After that it was simply a matter of positioning the rest of Lestrade's men in the shadows and niches of the railway tunnel while Lestrade, Watson, and Sherlock lay in wait in the butcher's lair.

No more than an hour later, he made his appearance.

Sherlock knew the exact moment the murderer realized something was amiss. His footsteps slowed and then stopped cold as he noticed the door to the storage room was hanging crooked and barely closed.

"It's no use running," Sherlock called out to the darkness. "Your day of reckoning is at hand."

Beside him Lestrade sighed. "Why does it always have to turn into a theatrical production when you're around?"

Sherlock ignored him and shoved the door out of the way, barely containing his wince as the hinges gave up and the door tumbled to the floor with a loud crack. The lamps in the storage room backlit Sherlock's form so that he was silhouetted in the doorway.

The suspect turned and ran, only to crash into several of Lestrade's men as they closed in around him in the small tunnel. They dragged him closer to the storage room and into the light. Sherlock could tell from the man's appearance and body that his deduction had been correct, their butcher really _was_ a butcher.

Lestrade began to demand answers from the man; but, to Sherlock's frustration, he was asking all the wrong questions.

"Where's the rest of the blood you took, you fiend? What have you done with it?" the Inspector shouted at the stubbornly silent suspect.

A young constable asked in a hushed, horrified tone, "Have you been drinking it?"

"Of course not," Lestrade snapped as Sherlock rolled his eyes at the sheer stupidity of the many idiots hired by the Yard.

Finally, Sherlock had enough. "Who is your employer?"

"Employer?" echoed Watson, seemingly always one step or two behind.

"Yes." Sherlock gestured toward the storage room. "Someone has been funding this man's work. The medical grade equipment in that room is expensive, far too much for this cretin to be able to afford." The butcher snarled, hatred twisting his strangely angelic face into something demonic.

"Judging from the dust upon the floor and the soot around the lamps, I would say the equipment was set up not long after the jumper escaped. Within two days, perhaps. Up until then he must have been mobile; setting up shop in abandoned buildings, working as quickly as possible, before dumping the bodies in the sewer or the Thames in the hopes that they would wash away without ever being discovered. Number one's escape must have frightened his employer with the risk of exposure, spurring the move to this more secure location."

Lestrade frowned. "What do you mean 'up until then'? The jumper was the first victim."

"The first you found, Inspector." Sherlock tilted his head and studied the mutinous expression on the butcher's face. "Yes, I'm quite certain now. More will come to light before this is all said and done."

"Fuck." Lestrade stomped his foot and looked as if he were tempted to punch something or someone. "Fucking hell."

"Quite," Sherlock agreed.

The butcher continued to flex his hands and arms as if testing the strength of the men restraining him, searching for a weakness to exploit for escape.

"I shall ask again, who is your employer? What use does he have for your endeavours?"

The butcher spit at Sherlock's feet. "I ain't telling you a thing. He'll have me killed if I even think of saying a word."

"You've already told me enough."

For a brief moment, the man looked scared, then his bravado returned. His chin lifted and he sneered. "You're bluffin'."

Lestrade signalled for his men to take the large man away. Then he turned to Sherlock. "I don't need to know how you've figured it out, I just need to know who and what."

"I'd like to know how," Watson interjected. "Later, of course."

"Of course," Sherlock agreed with a small smile for his friend. "I wouldn't dream of keeping you and your readers uninformed."

"Right, lovely." Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. "Can we focus on this mysterious employer you keep going on about now?"

"It will be a man of great importance, in need of a large quantity of fresh blood. Doctor Hooper identified the discarded equipment found in the Smithfield Park building as that used in blood transfusions, the same equipment in this room. You saw how the bottles were packed with care. Something has change in the last few days, his demands have increased exponentially."

Sherlock paused to consider his words. "You're looking for a member of the peerage, someone of influence and wealth. There will be a spouse or young child who has been ill. Probabilities lean toward it being the child, a boy. He'll be sickly and weak by this point, as indicated by his father's desperation. The man will keep the child confined to the family home, for the boy will be too fragile to play with others of his age."

The Inspector nodded as he wrote in his notebook, although Sherlock knew Lestrade had not followed his line of thought.

"I suspect it's haemophilia, or something similar. A disease of the blood at any rate. The child's health must be failing, and the blood is meant to be a bid to keep him alive. Transfusions. Possibly even attempts to find a cure, clearly not sanctioned by any reputable hospital in London."

"That's a rather specific list." Watson rubbed his hands together, then blew on them for warmth. "It shouldn't be too hard to find a man of that description."

"Harder than you might suspect, Watson. Our man will have hidden his child's condition to keep prying eyes from interfering with his efforts. He might even feel shame that the Royal Disease had infected his bloodline."

Sherlock adjusted his coat and straightened to his full height. "I shall have a name for you before the end of day."

"Just like that?" Lestrade held up his hands in defeat. "I said I didn't want to know how, and I don't. Just give me the name and I'll take it from there."

Watson waited until they were out of the tunnel, and far from curious ears, to speak again. "We will be going to the Diogenes Club to see your brother, then?"

Sherlock's lips twisted in annoyance as he pulled on his gloves. "Unfortunately. Time is of the essence. Our man will relocate to the country and turn to another source once he discovers this one has been compromised."

His long stride ate up the distance to the street in front of the Market, where he raised his hand to summon a carriage. "Of even more importance, I have an appointment this evening and would prefer not to be late."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** One last chapter to go after this. It will be the epilogue and focused solely on Sherlock and Molly's relationship (also, there will probably be sex). If that's not your thing, feel free to pretend this is the end of "The Adventure of the St Bartholomew Vampire".

 **Part Eight**

Sherlock had not been as anxious waiting for a serial killer that afternoon than he was standing in front of the door to the rooms Martin Hooper shared with his rarely seen sister, Molly.

Their dragon of a landlady had given him the evil eye until he'd assured her he was there to visit Doctor Hooper, the silent implication being that he did not have any designs on Miss Hooper's virtue (which might not have been entirely truthful, if he allowed himself a moment to think on it).

"The Doctor is home, came in a few hours ago. I'll go up and announce you, let him come down to receive you."

Sherlock gave her the most reassuring and utterly non-threatening smile in his repertoire. "There really is no need. Doctor Hooper is expecting me."

His smile had drooped as soon as he set foot on the stairs that led up to Hooper's floor.

And now he found himself hesitating to knock.

Was he truly ready for this? No matter how much he might have tried to convince himself that it was just a meal with a . . . friend, Sherlock knew that he'd never been this nervous at the prospect of dining with Watson.

He'd never wanted to kiss Watson, either; yet that was something he very much wanted to experience again with Hooper.

And that would never happen if he didn't pull himself together and knock on the damn door!

A split second after his knuckles connected with the wood, the door cracked open. There was the impression of soft brown eyes beneath cinnamon coloured hair, then she was gone and the door opened fully.

He heard her voice welcoming him from behind the door, feminine and warm. "Good evening, Mister Holmes."

"Miss Hooper." Why was his mouth so dry?

Was that a creaking floor board coming from the direction of the stairs? Had the harpy landlady followed him up? "I believe your brother is expecting me."

"Ah, yes. I seem to remember him mentioning that." Sherlock thought he detected a note of mirth in her voice.

Suddenly the familiar tenor of Hooper's voice called out. "Come in, Holmes. Don't keep my sister waiting at the door."

Sherlock stepped into the room and smiled at Molly, who had her hand over her mouth to contain her mirth. She was a vision in a sage coloured dress, her hair pinned up in soft waves. "My apologies, Miss Hooper."

He quietly shut the door, blocking out any busybodies who might have been listening from down the hall.

Molly's hand dropped to her skirts, smoothing the material over her hips. The ache in his chest eased somewhat when he realized she must be as nervous as he.

They stood in still for a long moment, neither one having any idea of what to say to break the awkward silence.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "You look . . . well."

"As do you." Molly looked toward her feet. He had the distinct impression that she was attempting to hide her amusement from him.

"That wasn't-What I meant to say was that you look lovely, Molly."

Her 'Thank you' was shy and softly spoken.

"You're looking very handso-Oh my Lord, what is wrong with us?" She threw her hands up in frustration. "In all the years that we have bickered and snarled at each other, we have never once been cursed with this-this awkwardness. And now, simply because I'm wearing a dress . . ."

Sherlock closed the distance between them and reached for her hands. "It's not the dress. Or, in all honestly, not simply the dress. I will concede that my first glimpse of you this evening wiped all rational thought from my mind for a brief moment in time."

In spite of her protests, Molly looked pleased with his admission.

"However, I suspect the blame for our newfound difficulties lie firmly with the . . . activity we engaged in shorty before you left Baker Street yesterday."

"The kiss, you mean." She drew her lower lip between her teeth just long enough to draw his attention to her mouth. If she were The Woman, he would think the action deliberate; but he had no doubts that Molly was unaware of how her innocent gesture made his blood warm.

"If I am unable to think of anything to say, it is because I am remembering the feel of you in my arms and the taste of your lips. I am ashamed to admit that I have thought of that moment far more than is appropriate."

She gripped his hands tighter. "I have had similar thoughts."

"Molly, I think it might be best if we were to have that dinner now. There are things we should discuss before we alter our relationship irrevocably." It pained him to withdraw from her touch.

"Oh. Yes, I can see how that might be for the best." She gestured toward a small table with a pair mismatched chairs pulled up to it. "The food is nothing fancy, I'm afraid. Bread, cheese, a bit of sausage, and some fruit. I don't have a full kitchen at my disposal, nor a housekeeper who can make ginger biscuits."

They shared a brief look of amusement. "I did pick up a bottle of wine on my way home, if you'd like a glass?" she offered.

Because that they had addressed the topic that had been uppermost in their minds, conversation finally began to flow like the wine they enjoyed with their meal.

Soon they turned to the case that had ruled over their lives over the last few days.

"Lestrade arranged to have Whittock confirm that the man we apprehended at Smithfield was the same man who approached him for access to the catacombs. As I promised, I've already sent word to an acquaintance of mine. I have every confidence that she will be willing to take Whittock's wife and child in."

Sherlock blanched as a small detail he'd overlooked suddenly occurred to him. "I believe you are already familiar with the widow Donlevy?"

Molly's pleasant expression dropped. "I am."

"She is, that is, she was a . . ." He really had no idea of where he was planning to go with his aborted admission.

"A casualty of your determination to go to almost any means to solve a case?" Molly offered. Her voice was tight, her lips pinched. "I have heard of the incident, but I had not made the connection until now."

"That was years ago. Not that it excuses my behaviour at the time. But I have changed since then, Molly. I swear it."

She sighed and took a fortifying sip of her wine. "Were you, by any chance, one of the burglars implicated in the death of her employer, Mr Milverton? If so, well done you."

Sherlock hid his shock at her vitriolic tone. He concentrated on folding his serviette, unable to bring himself to meet her gaze. "I was not the one who shot him, although I did see the person responsible. I shan't give you their name, do not ask it of me."

Molly waved her hand dismissively. "Knowing what I do of the man, I honestly would not care if you were. Instead you were the handsome plumber who swept her off her feet, only to disappear once Milverton was no longer of this world, I presume."

There it was. The moment that would end their burgeoning relationship before it had truly begun. "I am. There was a rival for her affections, one that I was sure would step in to offer comfort once I was gone."

She drained her glass and set it aside. "That would have been the late Mr Donlevy. An odious man who made her life a living hell from the moment they were married. Until he met with an unfortunate end." Molly's lips quirked upward the slightest bit, reminding Sherlock of the sort of dark things she was capable of. Oddly, it only made him all the more certain that she would fit in splendidly with the dubious morality that seemed to surround Sherlock and his companions.

"I am . . . aware that you could have implicated her in her husband's death at the hands of the Bride, should you have chosen. Janine has forgiven you, it would be irrational for me to not do the same. More wine?"

Sherlock was unsure of how, exactly, he'd managed to come out of that conversation without being shown the door; but he was cautiously optimistic about the remainder of the evening. He refilled her glass and topped up his own.

"You know, of course, that the supposed vampire was a butcher named Bates. He was in the employ of a man of high prestige."

"Will this man be brought in front of the courts, or will his position grant him amnesty for his crimes?"

He tilted his wine glass in her direction in a silent salute to her astuteness. That was one of the things he liked about Hooper, she had no idyllic illusions about how the world worked. "His official arrest has been delayed for the moment. He has been escorted to his country estate, where he and his family will remain under heavy guard until his son expires from complications brought on by haemophilia. Watson gives him no more than a month at this point."

Molly's expression softened minutely. "I can't imagine the pain one must feel to know their child is going to die. It does not justify what he has done, but I do hold a sliver of sympathy for their circumstances in my heart."

"You are not the only one, which is why he has been allowed to remain with his wife and child until the young one's passing. At that point, he will be brought back to the city and where he will most likely face a sentence to spend the remainder of his life in Pentonville."

They both contemplated that for a moment, then Molly's face lit up. "I ran into Stamford this afternoon. The hospital has received a grant to upgrade several of the laboratory microscopes for Köhler illumination."

Another half hours passed with discussion of potential experiments designed to utilize the new equipment.

Sherlock caught sight of a small, ornate clock nestled on a curio shelf full of books. It was later than he'd thought, and there were still things he wished to discuss. "Thank you for a delicious meal and entertaining conversation. If I may be so bold, I would like to do this again."

She blushed and glanced away until she could control the twitch of her lips that threatened to bloom into a wide grin. "That would be acceptable. When would suit you?"

"At this moment, I feel as if tomorrow would not be soon enough. However, I am already committed to taking my brother's place escorting my parents to the opera." He did not try to mask his distaste for the forfeit he had been forced to make to secure Mycroft's full assistance in identifying and neutralizing the man behind the St Bartholomew Vampire. Sherlock knew Mycroft would have eventually agreed without the quid pro quo, but their entire relationship was built upon the foundation of squabbling siblings.

The detail assigned to keep Lambourne from escaping his (momentarily delayed) fate at Pentonville was magnitudes beyond anything the Yard would have been able to provide. Both Holmes brothers were aware Lambourne wold not be tried as the man behind the monster; lesser charges would be used to save the collective face of the peerage from embarrassment and scrutiny. The important thing was that Lambourne would spend the rest of his miserable life in prison, regardless of the crimes he would be convicted of.

"Perhaps we should take this thing between us slowly." Her eyes pleaded with him to understand. "I wish to see you as soon as possible; and, to be perfectly frank, that desire scares me in its intensity."

He reached across the table to take her hand. "It frightens me, too. I am a man of logic. I do not allow emotions and sentiment to control my life, but I cannot help the way you make me feel. I . . . ache to see you smile. I want to touch your hand and feel you in my arms. I have never let physical desire cloud my judgment, and yet . . ."

She unconsciously leaned toward him over the small table. "And yet?"

"I would almost give in to the temptation nonetheless—right here, right now—if I did not hold you in such high regard."

Molly bit her lip and Sherlock groaned. The words he'd just uttered were forgotten as he used his hold of her hand to urge her from her chair. He pulled her down upon his lap. His hands rose to cradle her jaw, the tips of his fingers brushed against the softness of her hair. At the look of wonder on her face, Sherlock knew his heart was lost.

"Let me court you, Molly Hooper. Let me reassure you there is nothing to fear in our feelings for each other. Let me earn the right to sate our mutual desires in the most pleasurable ways imaginable. Let me earn your love."

"Oh, Sherlock." Her eyes briefly fluttered closed as she leaned into his touch. "You don't know what you ask of me. As much as I want to be with you, I cannot give up everything I've worked for in exchange for a life as a dutiful housewife. I know there are plenty of women who thrive in those conditions, but I fear I would wither and die if I could no longer return to St Bartholomew's and my work."

"Perish the thought. Have I not told you that the morgue would fall into ruin under another's hand? I would be content with the world believing we are two bachelors who enjoy one another's company, as long as it meant you would be with me." He tilted her chin up so that she could examine his face and read his sincerity. "Although it might be best to inform Mrs Hudson of your secret, to forestall any awkward interruptions when you visit Baker Street. She is soul of discretion in private matters. I trust her implicitly."

He could tell she was considering it. Molly offered up another objection, although it lacked conviction. "People might gossip. Rumours about your intimate inclinations would spread."

"They already do. Watson and I had barely shared a flat for six months before the rumours started. I never paid them mind. The people who matter most will know the truth, everyone else can go hang."

"I do not have the connections and privilege of a Holmes to protect my reputation. A scandal would put me under scrutiny and potentially destroy me."

Sherlock pulled her closer and brushed his lips against hers in a soft, chaste kiss. "May I suggest that a month from now, if we continue to get on well as Hooper and Holmes, amiable colleagues; I could fall into a whirlwind courtship with Hooper's sister. Complete with highly visible outings that would assure even the most hardened of hearts that we have made a love match. You would remain Doctor Hooper by day, and my beloved Miss Hooper by evening. Your 'brother' would be welcome to move in to Baker Street if we were to marry."

He kissed her again. A bit harder this time, a bit longer. "But only if and when you wished it. We need not make any hardfast decisions now. I'm not a sociable man, and my work of often leads me away from home for an extended length of time. More often than not, I find excuses to avoid as many social obligations as I can. We should be compatible in that respect. Unless, have I deduced you wrong? Are parties and endless formal dinners something you enjoy?"

"God no." Molly grinned at him. Her hand came up to cup his cheek. Her thumb slid across his lower lip as if testing the firmness. "I am willing to consider your proposition, Mr Holmes. On one condition."

 _Anything_ , his mind quickly pledged. "Name it, and I shall see if I find it agreeable."

Molly slid her hand into his hair. The light scratch of her short nails against his sensitive scalp nearly made him growl. "I wish to move this discussion to the settee. I fear for the stability of my chair if I were to remain perched upon your lap much longer."

Without another word, he swept her up with one arm under her legs and the other behind her back, and carried her to the settee. With utmost care Sherlock deposited her onto the cushions and then settled in beside her.

She tilted her face up in offering, and he gladly accepted with a gentle kiss. His hands found her back, then slowly travelled down to her waist, as they continued to experiment to find the perfect angle and pressure of lips against lips.

Molly's fingers dug into his waistcoat. He immediately cursed the layers of fabric between her touch and his skin.

If the scratch of her nails against his scalp had been heaven, the thought of her doing the same to his chest—or, God help him, lower still—was pure, delicious hell.

Sherlock's tongue darted out to tease at the seam of her lips. She moaned, and he took advantage of the moment to truly taste her.

There was wine and a hint of apple from their meal, and the unmistakable flavour of Molly that he had only briefly experienced before Watson had blundered in to ruin the moment.

Her waist was small enough that he could nearly span it with his hands. How much of that was due to the constriction of her underthings, and how much was due to her petite build? What he wouldn't give to someday find out for himself.

Her tongue met his and boldly mirrored his lead.

He had no idea how long they kissed before he felt her hesitant touch against the back of his hand. Sherlock immediately released his hold upon her waist. He attempted to draw back, prepared to end their activities if that was what she wished; but her fingers closed around his wrist and held him close. She leaned into him, pressing her open mouth to his in an invitation that was too tempting to resist, as she slowly moved his hand up her side.

They both groaned when his hand finished its guided journey by cupping her breast.

He felt his member begin to harden as she pressed him tighter against her flesh, filling his palm. "Oh, Molly. The things you make me want." His voice had dropped into a low rumble that made her shiver in response.

She _writhed_ under his touch as his thumb sought the peak of her breast. There was no other word to describe it. She was so very responsive.

Would she react as passionately if he were to lower her to the settee cushions and cover her body with his full weight? If he were to grind his now fully erect cock between her thighs until they both experienced the little death?

Molly leaned back to search his face. She was breathless and flushed. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

"I must confess that this is . . . While I have clinical knowledge of the physical changes a human body undergoes when aroused, I do not have the-the practical experience that a man of your worldliness might be more familiar with. I find myself a bit overwhelmed."

He had suspected as much, based solely upon the lack of whispered rumours about Hooper or his reclusively shy sister amongst the gossips that populated the halls of St Bartholomew's.

Sherlock brought his mouth down to pepper kisses along her jawline. "I'm not as familiar with such things as you believe. Even if I were, I have been informed by a man I trust that intimacy is vastly different when one is with a partner they . . . care for." It was far too soon to label what he felt for as love, and he would not use pretty words he was not absolutely certain of just to get under her skirts.

"Do you? Care for me?"

"Do you doubt it?" he countered.

Molly shook her head. She traced her fingers over his brow and down to his jaw. "You must know I care for you as well."

"Of course. I wouldn't have let you lure me into such a compromising position if I weren't sure of your honourable intentions, Miss Hooper."

Her snort of laughter was unexpected and infectious. He found himself smiling along with her.

The hand that had been at her breast had long ago fallen to Molly's hip. He couldn't help the way his fingers curled into the material of her skirt, pulling it higher in ever increasing increments.

"It would be unseemly of me to be seen leaving the rooms of a young, single woman such as yourself too late in the evening; your phantom brother as our chaperone none withstanding. Therefore, I must take my leave within the next quarter of an hour. I propose we spend the next ten minutes seeing just how compromised of a position we can achieve without the need to summon a parson, my dear Molly."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** I want to thank my Halloween at 221B - A Sherlolly Celebration co-mod Lilsherlockian1975 for her encouragement while I was trying to brainstorm an idea for a Halloweenish fic. I also want to thank my husband, the Captain, for listening to me ramble plot ideas at him and for answering questions like "If you were going to try to hide a body in Victorian London, where would you put it?" His answer was the sewer, btw, which did make an appearance in my story. I also also want to thank an old friend and former beta once in another life who also answered the 'where would you hide a body' question for me (the Smithfield Meat market was her answer, and it featured heavily in my story) and helped me with loads of research via the sort of text messages that would make law enforcement give you the side eye.

 **Part Nine**

It had been a strange courtship.

Nine months—Or more precisely eight months and twenty-three days, not that Sherlock had been counting.—of almost weekly meals in various restaurants and pubs, with either Hooper or Molly as the whim took her. There had been a few occasions where the demands of their respective jobs had necessitated the cancelation of the weekly walkabout for the sake of the social columns and gossip rags. Sherlock had not been facetious when he'd told her that he wanted the world to believe they had a love match.

Especially as it had quickly become the truth.

More often there would be a meal provided by Mrs Hudson at Baker Street followed by intelligent and sometimes heated discussions (often accompanied by even more heated kisses shared on the settee or even his chair on two very memorable occasions).

Rarely he would visit Hooper at 'his' home. The sight of Molly with her hair prettily arranged and her figure on display in a simple dress never failed to warm his blood and make him temporarily forget himself. Initially they had agreed to limit those encounters to only when they had gone more than a week without seeing each other, as that was when they had a tendency to push the boundaries of propriety the most. As understanding as Mrs Hudson was, neither Molly nor Sherlock wished to deal with her knowing looks and gentle reminders that there was a limit to the sort of thing she would allow unmarried couples to do in her home.

Since they had announced their engagement two months prior, they had found more and more excuses to dine at Molly's; until the evening they found themselves upon her bed with her skirts at her waist and his fingers seeking entrance to her feminine core. His index finger had barely discovered the wet proof of her arousal when he gently closed his teeth around a beaded nipple through her blouse, and Molly had cried out his name in unmistakable passion. If not for the damage to her reputation if they were overheard by her harpy of a landlady, Sherlock would have taken her that night, so great was his desire for her. They decided it would be best not to risk being discovered for a mere hour's pleasure, so they mutually agreed to limit their private meals to Sherlock's home.

However, once they had shared with their friends that they intended to marry (including Inspector Lestrade, who had been flummoxed to discover that the Hooper siblings were one in the same), Watson had seemingly made it his mission to interrupt whenever Sherlock and Molly tried to have a quiet evening at Baker Street. For instance, Sherlock knew for a fact that his friend had never had a craving for Mrs Hudson's shepherd's pie in the many years he had lived in 221B, and yet he'd shown up half an hour after Molly's arrival the day after the small engagement party. Almost as if he'd been summoned.

It only took Sherlock two 'spontaneous' visits to realize that Watson had enlisted Mrs Hudson's aid. The older woman must have been sending word every time Molly (or even Hooper) came to visit. He finally snapped the fourth time it happened. Sherlock had hissed that Watson was being ridiculous, there was no need for a chaperone.

Watson had smirked, visibly pleased that he was getting under his friend's skin. "Do you remember when I was engaged to my lovely Mary? And do you remember how we would return to Baker Street after an outing, to spend an hour together before I would escort her back to her parent's home?"

Sherlock had failed to see the point of his questions, but he'd answer them nevertheless. "Of course I do."

"Do you also remember how you would insist on joining us to discuss cases, regardless of how many times I suggested you might want to visit the Yard to see if they'd made any advancements or found something new to entertain you?"

Just like that, Watson's behaviour made sense. "This is a revenge plot."

"It is."

"In my defence, Mary truly was interested in hearing about our cases. She offered excellent insight into the Vultoro stabbing." It wasn't much of a defence, in hindsight.

Watson conceded his point with a brief nod. "Not as interested as she was in spending time alone with me. I believe you understand my frustration?"

"Yes. Lesson learned. Does this mean you'll stop now?" Sherlock had asked, not quite able to mask the hope in his voice.

Watson's answering grin was positively evil. "Oh no. No, there is still a few more weeks of amusement to be had. You forget, my friend, Mary and I had a long engagement."

And so, it came to pass that Sherlock and Molly were unable to spend more than twenty minutes alone together in the weeks leading up to their wedding.

Sherlock freely admitted to himself that the wedding night could not come soon enough.

Unfortunately, while the wedding day had occurred as scheduled two days prior, the much-anticipated wedding night had not.

The wedding had been an intimate affair held at Mycroft's estate (Mummy Holmes had insisted); with only Sherlock's brother and parents, and the Watsons in attendance. They had just sat down for an elaborate wedding breakfast when a messenger from Inspector Lestrade arrived with news of a murder/kidnapping.

Lestrade had sent his regrets; but the presence of Holmes and Doctors Watson and Hooper were requested at the earliest convenience.

Mummy had been understandably upset; but Molly had read Lestrade's message and informed Sherlock that there was no way either of them could ignore the abduction of a three-year-old girl, regardless of the day.

Mary had graciously offered to oversee the moving of the last of Molly's things to Baker Street while her husband assisted Sherlock on the case and Molly reported to the morgue as Hooper.

Sherlock had not seen his wife since he'd left the morgue after examining the murdered nanny two days ago. The case had sent him into the country on the trail of the missing child and her abductors; and he and Watson had only just returned after seeing the little girl reunited with her parents.

It was more than an hour after dark before he was able to let himself into his home on Baker Street.

Mrs Hudson hurried out of her parlour, her face lit up with a welcoming smile when she saw him. "Mr Holmes! We weren't expecting you, I thought for sure that once the sun set it would be too late for you to come home tonight." She softly clapped her hands together. "Mrs Holmes will be so pleased to see you. Came home from St Bartholomew's herself just before dusk."

An ache he hadn't known he'd been carrying in his shoulders eased when he heard that Molly was there. Another ache, deeper and hungrier, awoke deep inside at the knowledge that _his_ Molly was so close.

He moved past Mrs Hudson toward the stairs, and she stilled him by putting a hand on his arm. "I'll bring up a supper tray in an hour and leave it outside the sitting room door, shall I? In case you get hungry." She tried to contain a mischievous grin, and failed. "For food, I mean."

"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock burst out. Another man might have been scandalized by her implication, but he simply wanted her to stop delaying him from seeing his wife.

"Oh, go on, you. I'll lock up down here and make sure you're undisturbed for the rest of the night."

His foot paused on the next stair up, then he turned and hurried back down to Mrs Hudson's side. "You're a godsend, Mrs Hudson. A godsend." Sherlock pressed a quick kiss against her cheek, earning a round of giggles, then he dashed back up the stairs.

Mrs Hudson had said that Molly had only been home an hour herself. He wondered which version of her he would find. Doctor Hooper with his moustache and suit, or Mrs Holmes with her soft hair and pretty dress.

Would it matter to his desire to immediately take her in his arms? Not in the least.

It was neither, and both.

Molly looked up from the book she'd been reading, seated with her legs drawn up beneath her in his chair. Her hair was loose and free around her shoulders (he had never seen it fully down, and the sight punched him in the gut like a fist). Instead of a dress, she was wearing a rumpled dress shirt pulled out over the top of Hooper's trousers, her braces rested against her hips. Even from across the room, his sharp eyes could tell that she wasn't wearing her usual breast bindings beneath the shirt.

Just like that, without even touching or being touched by her, he felt himself begin to harden.

Her book fell from her fingers to the floor, and neither of them cared. Molly stood and took a step toward him. He finally noticed that her feet were bare, her toes small and pale against the rug.

"Sherlock? I wasn't expecting . . . Did you find her?"

"Yes." He pushed the sitting room door closed behind him and twisted the lock in place with a deliberate click. "She's with her parents, her kidnappers have been apprehended, and I paid the carriage driver handsomely to get me home as quickly as possible because I have missed you, Molly."

"As I have missed you."

He had her in his arms within a heartbeat. Their lips met and immediately parted. Sherlock groaned as the taste of her filled his mouth—ginger biscuits, a nip of port, and Molly.

Her hands slid into his hair and her nails scratched across his scalp in the way that never failed to please him. A fact she well knew after all these months. Sherlock pulled her upward onto her toes so that they were pressed together from chest to upper thigh. His full arousal nudged against her. Molly's small teeth nipped at his jawline in retaliation.

It was with some difficulty that Sherlock managed step away from his wife. "I would prefer to come to you without the grit and grime of two days' travel upon my skin. Give me a few minutes to bathe and I will return refreshed and ready to devote my evening to making up for our time apart."

Molly nodded, a shy blush stained her cheeks.

A quarter of an hour later, Sherlock stepped into the sitting room. He had changed into another pair of trousers and a clean shirt, with a dressing gown over it all. Much like Molly, he hadn't bothered with shoes.

But the sitting room was empty. He tilted his head to turn an ear upwards, straining to hear if there was any movement coming from the spare room above where the majority of Molly's things (including two trunks full of clothing) had been stored until they could find permanent homes in Baker Street.

There was a soft creak from down the hall in his—their—bedroom. With an anticipatory smile on his lips, Sherlock spun on his heel.

Molly was standing near the foot of the bed when he pushed open the bedroom door. She was wearing a dressing gown that wasn't much different than one of his own and a long shift that was so thin he swore he could see shadows at the crux of her thighs. Her hair was down, the ends brushing against the swell of her breasts.

It took him a long moment to find words, and then all that came out was a husky, "You are so beautiful."

"Thank you."

Sherlock closed the door, then locked it for good measure. He held out his hand to her. "Come here, Mrs Holmes."

Her hands twisted together at her stomach for a moment before Molly lifted her chin and took the three steps necessary to take his waiting hand.

Her pretty brown eyes fluttered closed when he leaned down to softly brush his lips against her own. He was determined to take his time and saviour this, their first time together.

Molly, however, was not so willing to take things at a slow pace. She allowed him his lead for a few moments, then drew his lower lip between her own. She captured it gently with her teeth and teased it with her tongue, before sucking it deeper into her mouth. Sherlock's hands clenched against her back, then fell to her hips and pulled her roughly against him. His earlier arousal returned, harder than before. Urgent.

She pushed his dressing gown off his shoulders, and he released her only long enough to let it fall to the floor. Her fingers turned to his shirt as she attempted to blindly release his buttons. Their kisses continued to grow more heated, almost frantic.

Impatience had him taking over the task of removing his shirt, and he struggled with the buttons at his cuff. Molly shrugged out of her dressing gown and tossed it over the nearby bedroom chair. She reached for her nightgown, and Sherlock abandoned his own clothing to reach for her hands. "Let me, my love."

He grasped handfuls of her gown and slowly pulled the material upward. By the time it cleared her hips and revealed the small thatch of dark curls guarding her mound his hands had begun to shake. Molly lifted her arms so he could draw the gown over her head, and he tossed it away once she was free.

Her breasts were lovely, not large but full and pert. They would fit perfectly in his hands, and he could almost feel their phantom weight against his palms.

"Do you need assistance?" Her tone was almost teasing. Sherlock realised he'd been staring at her while he stood there, still mostly dressed while she was bare.

He shook his head and finished unbuttoning his cuff so that he could pull his shirt off. While he worked open the fastenings of his trousers, Molly pulled the bedcovers down and crawled onto the bed. The brief glimpse he was afforded of her pale back and lush arse sent dozens of carnal thoughts scattering through his brain.

His member strained for freedom, making the removal of his trousers and pants a delicate operation.

Molly got one quick look at her husband's naked form before he joined her on the bed. He briefly considered dousing the lone bedside lamp, but his desire to see her overrode any outdated concerns for modesty that may have issued a feeble protest.

He braced one hand near her far shoulder and loomed over her, almost but not quite touching her.

"These last two days without you have been an insidious torture. I missed hearing your voice, reading with you, simply being in the same room with you. Watson called me a lovesick fool. I fear he was not incorrect."

She smiled up at him, soft and sweet. "I am afraid I have suffered from the same malady while you were gone. Stamford asked if my sister has been keeping me from my proper rest with her sorrow at your absence."

"Let us hope that tomorrow he refrains from asking if her joyful reunion is what kept you up all night."

Molly laughed, and Sherlock's lips were still curved with his own amusement when he leaned down to kiss her. She wrapped her arms around his back and pulled him to her. They both groaned as his bare chest pressed against her naked breasts for the first time.

He could feel her nipples pebble against him. The hand that had been supporting him came down to cup her breast, his thumb searching for and finding a hard nipple. Molly gasped against his mouth.

Unable to wait any longer, Sherlock lowered his head to taste her breast.

They had touched each other intimately before, but never without at least one layer of clothing between them. Even the single time they had lost their heads to passion and he had briefly dared to seek out her feminine heat with his hand, he had remind fully dressed.

But now, as his tongue laved at her nipple and she gasped and mewled, there was nothing separating them. Sherlock inserted his thigh between hers, pushing upward to meet the unsure roll of her hips. His cock pressed between them, full and insistent. He slid his hand between Molly's legs, fingers searching for the centre of her pleasure.

She was wet for him. The discovery made him growl her name against her breast. He felt her hand against the back of his own, pressing him closer against her mound. Guiding him to find the spot that brought her the most pleasure.

Sherlock flicked his tongue against her nipple as he began to circle her clit with two calloused fingers. Molly threw her head back, body arching off the bed as she called out his name.

Her free hand found his back, her nails clawed against his skin as she came apart in his arms.

He lifted his head to watch her, fascinated. Sherlock continued to brush his fingers against her nub through her orgasm until she pushed his hand away.

"Good?" he asked as she caught her breath.

"Oh, yes." She bit her lower lip, and he surged forward to kiss her in response.

Molly wiggled a hand between them, and it took him a moment to deduce her intent. He caught her wrist in his hand. "As much as I will enjoy your touch in the future, I fear that if you touch that part of me now, we will be finished before we've really begun."

She pouted, and he relented somewhat. "Next time, I promise to let you have free rein."

"I will hold you to your word, husband."

"I will look forward to you doing just that, wife."

They smiled at each other, then Sherlock bent his head to kiss her once more.

There was a moment of not quite fumbling as her legs parted even farther and he shifted until he was laying between them. Sherlock reached out to take one of her hands in his, linking their fingers together.

Thankfully there was no pain as he slowly entered her. She was an active woman of age, to expect that her hymen would have remained intact would have been idiotic, and Sherlock was grateful that he did not have to hurt her. She was tight, however, and unused to such an intrusion. He took his time, easing in and out of her channel in small increments.

Her gasps of pleasure and the tightening of her fingers around his were the signs he'd been waiting for, on his next stroke he sunk to the hilt inside her heat. Molly cried out and raised her knees to cradle his hips in encouragement.

Soon enough his entire world had focused down to just her and the points where they touched. Their entwined hands, their chests pressed together and slick with sweat, the movement of his other hand against her clit, the point where they were joined most intimately.

The way her inner muscles suddenly began to ripple and clench around his length as Molly unexpectedly found her release once more.

His vision blurred, then went dark for a split-second, as his entire body jerked . . . and then he cried out her name as he came.

Sherlock lay draped over her just long enough to catch his breath, then he rolled to his side and pulled her against his chest.

Her hair was soft against his cheek. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face against her messy curls. "I love you."

She lifted her head to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. "And I love you."

 **The End**


End file.
